“J’avais cessé de me sentir médiocre, contingent, mortel. D’où avait pu me venir cette puissante joie ? Je sentais qu’elle était liée au goût du thé et du gâteau, mais qu’elle le dépassait infiniment, ne devait pas être de la même nature.” — Proust
This spring, I’ve enjoyed reading Proust’s A La recherche du temps perdu, a brief meditation on the taste and savoring of a madeleine. A few weeks ago,my peers and I explored the deep sense of yearning and bereftness.
That discussion left me tasting a strong cold brew with a splash of oat milk, granola toasted with honey full of dried cherries and cranberries, and a sip of a loved one’s grapefruit juice. We were in Providence, Rhode Island two springs ago: green paint chipping off a worn wooden bench where we ate. The sun was intense, making the morning chill of an April day unnoticeable. Each of my sense reprogrammed to be atune to him, to our love.
To focus on the goût: tart cherries bounced off my tastebuds and danced with the honey-glazed granola. It was comfortable, and I didn’t know I craved the combination of flavors until I met it. I could taste the depth of a cold brew over ice, not too bitter but with a definitive kick. A splash of oat milk made me relish each sip a little more.
L’odorat of that morning comes back to me immediately: sea breeze, bergamot, geranium, and sage dance in my nose, credited to his Acaqu di Gio Profumo cologne. Something that now haunts me once placed me in sacred comfort.
La vision of that day is bright sun rays hitting a loved one’s eyes just so: tracking my face and the curls of hair at the nape of my neck. The grass was saturated with a brilliant green, and the gravel contrasted with a deep gray underneath our feet. I remember my turtleneck matching the clear blue sky perfectly that day.
And the sounds, L’ouië, are easy to recall. Laughter that mended holes in each of us, joyful, effortless conversation as we sipped each other’s drinks. Telling secrets, expressing humility, his voice hums on the same octave as my favorite song. The Lyrics Funny How a Melody Sounds Like a Memory churn as he tells me about his hopes and dreams. A child and his father scooted in front of us, and he whispered, “That’s what our kid will look like” in my ear.
Hands are held, hair tucked behind my ear; Le toucher is the most haunting. The fabric of his sweatshirt wrapped around my skin each night that week. Wiping an eyelash away from my face, letting me make a wish as I blow it away. My physiological reprogramming haunted me for a time. In the same way an addict goes through a withdrawal from alcohol or drugs, those in love go through the biological withdrawal from the other. Our cells are programmed to remember someone else’s touch; we expect dopamine and other chemicals to be increased in touch experience. In time, skin sheds, memories fade, addicts become recovered.
A professor mentioned how she savored the mornings with her husband: getting handed a cup of coffee, watching her husband sit and listen to the birds outside their room. When she said that, I no longer sat in a classroom but on the shore of the Moshassuck River in Providence. Watching him skip rocks and turn back at me with a smile seeking approval. In that moment, it was my everything. I rested in this moment for only a second before being transported back into reality. I turn to the reality of my mornings these days: secluded to my bed, work, and experience.
To focus on the goût: a chalky sensation coats my throat as I swallow 300mg of Wellbutrin. Artificial berry-flavored Vitamin D gummy comes next, leaving a sour taste in my mouth. Fresh, spearmint toothpaste replaces this as I brush my teeth with the last of my stock from France.
L’odorat of the local coffee shop: I’m met with the familiar and comforting scent of espresso and coffee. As I brew the first pot of Duck Rabbit beans, I’m hit with rooibos tea, huckleberry, and tart meyer lemon. A hint of cherry, cinnamon, and lavender wafts through my nostrils as I turn on the oven and plate various pastries in the display case.
Lately, La vision is a compilation of shadows as I sparingly turn on lights at the shop. I see a note from the closing barista: need more hot lids, no decaf. I see the various decal stickers affixed to my Nalgene water bottle: a dark blue horseshoe crab shell with 302 scrawled across it, a white and black SOLO wilderness medicine tag, and a red Massachusetts car with a pint of ice cream on top from his favorite store, the final of a few reminders of an old life.
L’ouië is what grounds me in the mornings. As I prep the coffee shop for open, NPR’s Bullseye blares in the background. Jesse Thorn’s raspy, quasi-California accent hums through the room while I count the drawer, focusing on the number of bills in each compartment. At 7:00, a banging on the door startles me, even though I know to expect my backbar at this time, and I turn down NPR before receiving them. By 7:30, I’ve changed the radio to a new playlist called Courtesy of Post; the good people of Slow Train don’t need to hear my dear friend Jesse so early in the morning.
Le toucher remains haunting. I recoil at the idea of holding someone now. Instead of anticipation I dread the potential for contact with someone else. I worry as I hand someone a cup of coffee if we brush fingers. Because I now know the feelings that can happen with touch, the absence of it feels so much more overwhelming.
Unlike my professor and her husband, I grieve my mornings. I grieve, rolling over and resting my head on his chest, feeling his arms wrap tightly around me. I grieve, drinking coffee, playing with his hair as I read a page or two from the Basquiat book he bought me for my birthday. There was a particular ritual we shared in the morning. It seemed the only time we had for ourselves, for each other.
Faire de la nostalgie… we do nostalgia. Elle m’envahit, malheureusement. I feel the joy, warmth and comfort at the beginning of recollection… before being reminded that I’ve lost what once made my past. In each action, I feel the memories that came before, the grief for the never made memories. I can’t eat dried cherries now. I still see grapefruit juice and think of grabbing a bottle for him. I sip cold brew each morning, hoping this time I won’t be transported back in time.
“je demande à mon esprit un effort de plus, de ramener encore une fois la sensation qui s’enfuit.” — Proust
About the author:
Post is a senior at Oberlin College graduating with a Bachelor of Arts in Comparative American Studies and French. They are a two year captain of the field hockey team, Slow Train barista, and loves a good rom-com. They’re grateful for the time spent in the E!D!S!L! learning clusters and wish the best for their classmates and teachers.
